Good Cop
by saralinda
Summary: A one-shot: After April is kidnapped, Mike and Don interrogate a captive Foot soldier to learn where the Clan has taken her.


**I do not own or profit from the TMNT**

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Michelangelo held the shellphone closer to his ear. "What?" he shouted into the mouthpiece. A loud burst of static pierced his head like a dart; he winced and smacked the device against the wall of the boiler room where he and Donatello were waiting. The phone stopped fizzing and began to whistle shrilly.

"Mikey, don't."

Mike stopped short, inches away from performing another phone bodyslam. Don had worked hard to build the new communicators after they'd lost their old ones to Triceraton prison guards.

"Sorry, Donny, but my _ear_…"

Donatello grabbed the shrieking phone from his brother and gently twisted the dial on the side. "Mikey, you have to baby these. We've mutated into higher life forms—let's act like it, shall we?"

White noise flared in the dank basement room before turning to softer whining tones and then, finally, to faint voices. Don adjusted the volume control on the top of the communicator before handing it back to Mike. He resumed tying the hands of the unconscious Foot Soldier they had captured in April's apartment. The rest were dead or still running.

"…need to get the info out of the prisoners. Can you hear me, Mikey?"

"Uh…can you repeat that, Leo? We've got shell-cell issues over here."

Leo's response was masked by another burst of static. Mike raised the phone as if to throw it as far as he could. Don raised an eye ridge.

Mikey brought the cell back to his ear and moved out of striking distance of Donatello's bo_._ "Once more, Leo?"

This time there was no mistaking Leo's message. "Raph, Casey, and I followed the wrong van; we caught up to them in Newark and April wasn't inside. They must have her in the other vehicle. We need you two to round up prisoners and find out where the Foot are taking her. Get the information any way you can. We're on our way back to New York now, but time is running…"

The phone emitted one final cough before fading out completely. Mike tossed it to Don, who stowed the dead device in his duffle bag. Then the brothers sat down silently on either side of the Foot soldier, who was lying on his face.

The battle in April's apartment had been intense, short, frustrating. Somehow Michelangelo and Donatello had become separated from Leonardo, Raphael, and Casey Jones, who had broken off from the main battle to fight the group of Elite ninja that had captured April. Left to themselves in a corner of April's first-floor antiques shop, Mike and Don had to contend with a crowd of black-clad enemies. Back to back, they fought for what seemed like hours, desperate to rejoin their brothers. By the time the last of Oroku Saki's clan had fallen or run, April and the others were long gone.

Mike started nervously toying with the chains on his nunchaku. April had never gotten herself kidnapped before; she wasn't normally the Damsel in Distress type. The last time Second Time Around had been filled with Foot ninja, the place had been incinerated, but April had escaped with him and his brothers. He glanced at Donatello, whose face was calm and expressionless behind the purple mask—except for the small tic that kept jumping next to his left eye: always a sign that Don was freaking out on the inside.

"So…we're on interrogation duty, huh Donny?"

Don nodded.

"And…this guy's out cold, right?"

Don nodded again.

"This is usually Raph's job."

Mike couldn't keep the misery from his voice; he remembered the last time they had needed information—the screams of pain, the pleas for mercy. Raphael had emerged blood-spattered from the abandoned subway station with plenty of answers. Mike never asked what happened to the Purple Dragon who had provided the info.

And then there was another time, when Agent Bishop had strapped him to a table…but he couldn't think about that right now.

"It might not be our thing, but we don't have a choice, Mikey. We need to know where they're taking April, and what they plan to do with her." Don's voice sounded calm, but Michelangelo imagined that his peace-loving brother was having serious issues with Leo's orders. It was one thing to inflict pain during a fight, another to thrash a helpless prisoner. He tried to visualize Don beating answers out of this captive Foot soldier. Then he tried to picture himself doing it. He started to feel a little sick. _Don will figure this out,_ he thought hopefully.

Mike watched as his brother dragged a broken straight-backed chair underneath the bare lightbulb hanging in the center of the room. The bulb swung gently as the tip of his bo knocked against it, flashing weak beams of light into the room's darkest corners.

The captive groaned as Don hauled him up and tied him to the chair; his head slumped down on his chest. Reaching into his bag, Don pulled out a bottle of water and held the man's head back, dumping the contents over the ninja's hooded face. Sputtering and coughing, he jerked his head upright. Donatello reached out and pulled off his black mask.

Mike scratched his head; he figured the prisoner would be young, a rookie who got caught while the more experienced Foot had gotten away. But the man was at least in his early thirties, and didn't look much like a newbie. He had a clean-shaven head, large brown eyes, a thin dark mustache, and a goatee edging his chin. A blade wound—probably the work of either Leo or Raph—ran from his temple to his jaw; it was crusty with drying blood, and fresh blood was starting to ooze from the gash.

Mike felt a wash of relief when Don gave him a look that plainly said "Stay back and be quiet" before angling the light so it shone in the man's face. "Where did the Foot take April?" His tone of voice surprised Mike; it was rough and very un-Don-like. But this _was_ an interrogation.

The prisoner coughed and spit red on the floor at Donatello's feet. "I don't know, Turtle." His steel-set eyes, the grit of his jaw, the tense ridge of his shoulders—every inch of the prisoner's body plainly proclaimed what he left unsaid: _"And even if I _did_ know, I wouldn't tell you."_

Michelangelo slapped a large green hand to his forehead and slowly drew it down to his chin. It looked like they would have to Go Raph on this guy after all. "There will be blood," he moaned. He let Don drag him by the arm to the opposite side of the room.

"There might not have to be, Mikey."

Michelangelo looked closely at his brother and realized, for the first time, that Donatello might not actually mind blood—might even enjoy a little violent questioning. His facial tic was even more pronounced, and his normally gentle brown eyes had a wildness in them that Mike had never seen before.

"We need a plan," Don continued. He drew out his bo and whirled it over his head with practiced ease before bringing it down inches from Michelangelo's face. Mike blinked very slowly and swallowed everything that had lurched up into his mouth. "Have you ever heard of the joint questioning technique?"

"Uh…no?"

"We might be able to get him to talk by playing a game," Don said softly.

Michelangelo considered this and began to feel a bit better. He needed Calm, Rational Donny, not Psycho Donny. And after all, games were one of his strengths. "Then tell me what to do so we can get it over with, bro."

The Something Wild in Don's eyes flickered up again. "This game is called 'good cop/bad cop.' Very simply, one of us plays the part of the 'bad cop,' threatening and intimidating the prisoner, while the other is the 'good cop,' who tries to gain the prisoner's trust. The bad cop scares the prisoner, the good cop protects him. Eventually the prisoner spills everything he knows to the good cop. Well, that's how it's supposed to work, anyway."

Michelangelo had seen this done in movies plenty of times. "Yeah, okay Donny, I get it—who am I?"

Don's teeth gleamed slightly in the semi-darkness as he grinned at his brother. "You," he whispered, "are Good Cop."

Good. This was good. Mike flashed Don a mock-salute and strode over to the prisoner. He put on what he thought was his most charming, trust-inspiring smile.

"Listen, dude—we're in a mess here. There's this beautiful babe named April, okay? And your friends have nefariously kidnapped her." Michelangelo frowned and paused before making his appeal; he wanted to let his words sink in. Folding his arms behind his back in what he hoped was a decent Good Cop impersonation, he paced the floor as he continued. "You have a chance to do the right thing, my friend—to make up for your evil ninja ways. Just tell us where they are taking April, and you'll have a clear conscience."

The prisoner looked up at Michelangelo and spat again. This time the red blob narrowly missed hitting Mike's foot. "I don't know anything about your little friend, except that she was hot," he sneered.

Donatello's weapon was simple: a long staff, cut from white oak, polished smooth by sweat and calluses during long sessions in the dojo. It was meant to be an extension of the self. Don extended it with the precision of a surgeon, striking the side of the prisoner's face with just enough force to open his drying wound and send a river of fresh blood pouring onto the floor.

Mike heard the captive's surprised "Umph!" and saw the blood before he realized that Don had moved. "Uh…yeah, did I mention that if you don't play nice, my brother here will…uh…hurt you badly?"

The man grunted and tried unsuccessfully to wipe his streaming face on his shoulder. "You boys don't understand what you're up against," he spat. "Untie me, now!"

Mike spoke quickly. "We'll let you go—as soon as you tell us what we need to know. Think about what I'm offering you, and consider the alternative." That's what Master Splinter said to him sometimes when he complained about a life stuck underground. _Consider the alternative._ It sounded…well, threatening, but in a kind, father-figure sort of way. He hoped.

His suggestion was met with barking laughter. "You've got nothing to offer me, Turtle, because I've got nothing to offer you. Oroku Saki's weapons operation is more important to me than some kidnapping. That poor chick is dead already, or worse." He smirked and licked a stream of blood from the corner of his mouth.

Mike turned his back and shut his eyes; he didn't want to see Donatello's reaction to that remark. Hearing it was almost worse—not just because of the prisoner's gasps for breath and strangled screams, or the dull sound of bo striking flesh, but because he heard…or thought he heard…Don whimpering, sobbing, as he struck.

He had to stop this.

"Donny, enough. We need him alive, remember? Donatello!" Mike jumped in front of the prisoner, who was—miraculously—still semi-conscious. He wondered whether his brother was pulling his punches. Then Don tried to land one final, savage blow, hitting Michelangelo in the shoulder and sending him spinning backwards onto the captive ninja; both of them toppled to the floor. Mike could hear the sound of the overhead light shattering as tiny glass shards rained down on him in the pitch darkness.

The heavy, sob-choked panting was Don's. The shallow, raspy gasps were the prisoner's. The surprised My-Big-Brother-Just-Nutted-Out-And-Whacked-Me-Flat-On-My-Shell breathing was his. Trying to get control of his lungs, Mike reached over and checked the captive ninja's pulse; it was weak but steady. Then he realized the man was speaking to him.

"Left leg. Holster. Badge. Undercover."

"Donny, I need a light! Donny-san?" A flashlight clicked on, the beam sweeping the room unsteadily. "Okay, not in my eyes, bro!" Mike reached out and took the light from his brother's shaking hands.

"Mikey…did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Donny—we're all fine. We're all okay." Michelangelo actually was hurting, quite a bit, but he wasn't in the mood for an apology session at the moment. He made a mental note to practice blocking bo attacks during the next session in the dojo.

Both Turtles were startled by the sudden sound of the shellcell's ring. Donatello searched through his bag for the phone. "Leo?" he called out, his voice breaking with anxiety.

Mike tuned out Don's static-laced conversation with Leo and tended to the fallen prisoner.

"Police," the man said weakly. "Undercover. Not Foot." He gestured toward his leg again.

Mike tore open the leg of the ninja's trousers, where he found the hidden Smith & Wesson handgun, a badge…and a photo of a smiling baby girl. He untied the man from the overturned chair and helped him to his feet. "Sorry, officer. I…you can go. Just go, get out of here." Mike hoped the guy could still walk; he was leaning pretty heavily on his shoulder.

The officer coughed and wiped blood from his eyes before drawing a shuddering breath. "I don't know for sure where the girl is. You might check Saki's warehouse down at Red Hook. I hope you can find her in time." Mike repeated the information to Don, who relayed it to Leo before giving Mike the thumbs up.

"I'll get the van," he said, tossing his bag over his shoulder; regret-filled brown eyes lingered on the injured man. "I am so sorry sir." A bow, a troubled look, and Don fled up to the street.

The officer took a few unsteady steps toward the door, one arm still around Mike's shoulders. He coughed again and pressed his hand gently against his side. "Tell your brother he's a lousy Bad Cop—it's the threat of pain that does the most damage, not actual pain." Then he smiled, bloody and gap-toothed, at Michelangelo. "You could make a Good Cop someday, though." Saluting Mike, he lurched out the door and disappeared.


End file.
